


pretending the echoes belong to someone

by electricshoop



Series: The Art of Losing Oneself While Trying to Be Found (And Other Grand Escape Plans) [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Other, Sad and Soft, Spiral!Gerry, and to finally let gerry find out michael's name, i wrote this 5k oneshot just to advertise a museum, identity Issues (in ... a way)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 17:44:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21019721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricshoop/pseuds/electricshoop
Summary: It gives Gerry a name to call it, finally, and then insists that a monster is a monster, and that it doesn't matter if it always has been just that.(Turns out, contemplating if this is true or not is suddenly much less fun if you do it by yourself, wondering if you're-)





	pretending the echoes belong to someone

**Author's Note:**

> me: it's a shame i can't write longfic, but i'll just write loosely related oneshots  
also me: let's write something that starts exactly where the last oneshot ended
> 
> i'm the punchline to a very unfunny joke, and uhhh you might want to read the last installment before reading this one
> 
> [title taken from "We Will Become Silhouettes" by eeehhhh, who would have thought, The Shins]

They leave Bratislava for Switzerland, and that last encounter with the Spiral creature won't leave him alone. Something about the way it talked about Gertrude, the way it kept mentioning her, however obscure. It still managed to make its dislike rather clear.

That next planned stop on their journey is an intermezzo and feels like taking a break from their weird little road trip, really; they've been doing research on the Stranger, mostly, but Gertrude got word that the Dark might be active in some small town, which she found odd, since she's rather sure she managed to stop their cute cult a few years ago. So, they decide to investigate it, but Gerry isn't too concerned, because Gertrude isn't too concerned.

From Bratislava, it's only a little more than half an hour to Vienna, and from there they travel by train, and Gerry wonders how Swiss folks manage to inhabit such a small country yet have so many train lines seemingly entirely unconnected to each other - they have to change trains an absurd total of four times (Zurich, Bern, Fribourg, Bulle).

In Bulle, they have to wait for their train for a little more than an hour, because apparently 5 am is too early for regularly departing public transport. He's too tired, at this point, to be actually annoyed by it, though. Instead he pulls his coat tighter around himself and presses closer into the corner where the hard, wooden bench and the glass panel protecting the spot from the wind meet. His coat does a good job of keeping him warm, but he can feel how cold the glass panel against his back is nonetheless, even through the leather. It helps keeping his mind clear, and he glances over to Gertrude, who's silently staring down the railway, as if she could will the train to come faster.

_You can't allow yourself that kind of naiveté. _That's what the surprisingly friendly Spiral monster had said. A rather personal sentence, as if it knew, as if it had made that exact mistake before. (And a mistake it would be. Gerry is aware of that. He's been spending enough time with Gertrude by now. She's not a caring woman; reminds him of his mother more times than he's entirely comfortable with. He tries not to think about it, mostly - it doesn't really matter, in the end, because at least with her, he knows they're on the same side; follow the same path down towards the same goals. It helps.)

He pulls his phone out of his pocket - his fingers are clumsy on the touchscreen; made stiff by the crisp November air. He starts typing, anyway, ends up on the website of the Magnus Institute, and doubts he'll find anything but distraction from the cold and the waiting.

He's not wrong - though he does find something, eventually, it's not until they are finally in the small hotel and he's still scrolling through his phone, kept awake by the insistent feeling that there's more to it; that there is something he should know. (This thought comes uncomfortably close to everything Gertrude is ferociously trying to avoid - too close to his liking to the Beholding - but ... still. Still. The way it had looked at him; the way it had laughed when he'd said Gertrude would get worried-)

It's in a tiny section about past events, still on the website of the Institute. There's a few bad shots of a Christmas Party (2006). He spots Gertrude once or twice, which makes him think that the event was most likely mandatory - he really can't imagine her attending a Company Christmas Party just for fun - and then, in a group of other people-

a young man, tall 

(though not as tall as the manifestation of the Distortion)

and has blond, curly hair

(though not as wild, not as untamed, as-)

and is holding a drink, smiling at somebody else, shyly

(not at all as headache-inducing as-)

(he looks, in a way, nothing like it, really) ((but, still, yes, the resemblance is-))

He stares at the screen for a few minutes, and tries to figure out what that could mean, if- (what it would _have_ to mean (and isn't it very easy to figure out, actually, and wouldn't it fit neatly into the fact that clearly, the monster tried to _warn _him?))

Outside, the sun is rising slowly, the light pouring through the tiny window muddy and grayish, that certain color only a November morning has to show, and Gerry swallows his thoughts down with a soft sigh and keeps scrolling. After spending almost an hour trying to find a name without any result, he gives up and takes a nap instead, and then it's 9:40 am, and he makes a call. 

(The connection is bad, which he is ready to once again blame on Switzerland; the secretary's voice comes through the speaker a little distorted, and the thought makes him almost laugh.)

*

He discovers the museum entirely by accident, later that day - he hadn't expected this small town to have anything that would be of any particular interest to him, and hadn't even bothered to look it up online. But Gertrude and he had talked to the person she got her tip from, and Gerry had tried to not be rude, so he'd stayed behind for some small talk - not that he is good at it, but he can listen to others talk, he's skilled at _that_. The young woman had seemed like she appreciated it, too. By the time he'd left her house, however, he'd found that Gertrude hadn't bothered with waiting for him outside. For some reason, it hurts, just the tiniest bit - being left behind, and realizing that she hadn't told him the address of the second place she'd wanted to check out. Not that it's all too surprising, though; Gertrude has always been incredibly practical and hadn't wasted any time on unnecessary niceties. (It was to be expected, really, after he'd found out about- Well. Nevermind that.)

The slight feeling of hurt is soon replaced by anger, and he spends a while just walking through the streets, complaining about Gertrude, about Switzerland in general and this town in particular under his breath, makes a point, even, of doing so in French, because of course Switzerland has four national languages - he manages to feel only a little bit childish for it.

Half an hour or so passes until he finds the museum. It's up a small incline, towering over the street. It takes him a moment to place the name "H. R. Giger" and realize he's the artist who came up with almost all of the concepts for the monsters from the "Alien" movies. He enters the building in a considerably better mood and pays for the ticket.

*

He's always enjoyed horror; the fact that his life would, most likely, always be surrounded by eldritch-y beings and monsters never changed this. He walks through the room on the ground floor and admires the art pieces - he likes the prints, a lot; and mostly the works that aren't extraterrestrials, but _something else_. It's the dark atmosphere that practically radiates off these pieces; the distinct way in which Giger manages to combine distorted human bodies and mechanical parts, the strange feeling of his subjects existing both as a victim and within symbiosis. 

It's the tarot cards, however, that capture his fascination the most. 

He doesn't think they're supposed to be the main attraction - the designs are framed against the wall by the stairs leading up to the upper level of the museum, but he spends what must be at least half an hour there, just looking at them. Taking in the ambiance, the art, analyzing the cards, their meaning, and the motives Giger chose for them. (He suspects Giger doesn't know much about tarot, nor bothered with the proper research, but they're fascinating all the same.)

It's then that he hears the footsteps - he's about to finally step off the stairs and turn to the rest of the exhibition on the upper floor. The creaking sounds wrong; hollow and something else, it seems to echo off the walls, off the rest of the stairs. He stops, still on the staircase, waits. The museum is dimly lit - everything else would, he thinks, most likely ruin the atmosphere, too, so the person - the being - following the sound of the footsteps is more shadow than anything else (and how fitting-)

He doesn't have to look to know who's joining him.

"Funny," Gerry says, without looking away. "I didn't think I was in mortal peril right now."

The footsteps stop. The being stops, a few steps beneath him still. When he doesn't get an answer, Gerry turns his head to look at it, and finds it staring at him with its head cocked to one side curiously.

"... You said you'd keep saving my life," he adds to explain his earlier words. (Until Gerry sees that Gertrude doesn't care, it had specified. Well. The thought hurts, as if it came with sharp edges bumping against the frames of his mind.)

"Did I," the other says, voice changing pitch ever so slightly somewhere between the two words. "I don't seem to recall that."

"Huh," Gerry makes, and then nothing, because he doesn't know what to say. Everything that comes to mind seems extremely inappropriate. _(So, what did Gertrude do to you? How was the Christmas Party (2006)? Was it a mandatory event? Why did you start working for the Institute in the first place; that's such a bad idea-) _((He almost asks.))

"You like monsters," the Spiral creature says - asks? - Gerry can't quite tell from its inflection - and lifts one hand to gesture at the wall lined with the tarot cards.

Gerry thinks about this for a moment, and then he shrugs. "I don't know that I like monsters. I like the idea of them, perhaps. The stories behind them." A second passes. Two. Then he hums a little. "Some of them were human, once."

He looks at it, out of the corner of his eye, without moving his head, tries to see if- if there's any sort of reaction.

It doesn't move, doesn't look at him, keeps staring at the art pieces intently. "Is that so." Its voice doesn't give anything away, either; it's level and calm. Oddly melodious, Gerry thinks, suddenly, and then thinks, _It's nice, for a monster, human-then-monster_, then thinks, _Huh._

It doesn't say anything else, and eventually reaches out to brush one of its fingers against the print in front of them ("The Empress". It's the empress.) Gerry watches, and watches the clean cut its finger leaves in its wake - down the face of the woman on the picture, leaving her blind on one eye-

"What the- Hey! Don't do that!" Before he can think better of it, Gerry takes the two steps down the stairs and grabs its wrist, hard, and yanks its hand back.

Its skin feels odd underneath his fingertips, too hard, too smooth, not quite right, as if there were no bones at all, or too many- It feels less human than it did when it had taken his own hand to look at the cut on his fingers. It's an entirely unpleasant experience. He drops its hand and takes a step back so he can properly glare at it. "You're not supposed to touch the pieces," he hisses, "and you're certainly not allowed to- to-" He trails off, eyes lingering on its fingers. They look normal enough. Not at all like they should be able to slice through paper like this, an original, most likely- Gerry feels a little sick at that thought.

His Spiral companion looks at him for a moment, with an intensity that's so sudden that it almost startles him a little - but it only lasts for a heartbeat, and then it laughs. It's the same haunting sound like back in the cornfield, and it's no less disturbing here, confined within four walls; swallowed by them- 

"I do not think you are supposed to come close enough to monsters to touch them, either," it says, not unpleasantly. 

"That's not-" (Yes, that's fair, he guesses.) "These are valuable art pieces; something the artist worked hard on, you can't just go and destroy them."

"They won't know," it says, not specifying who "they" are. The employees, Gerry suspects. He can't be sure it's telling the truth, but even if it were-

"Still!" He gestures around. "You can't just- just walk into a museum and- does art mean nothing to you?"

"No. Nothing."

The simplicity of the answer catches him off guard for a moment - but, as so often when interacting with it, what else did he expect?

"Right. Okay." He stares at the half-blinded empress for a moment, then takes the lasts steps towards the second floor. "Why are you here?" 

"Why are you here?" it repeats right back at him, quickly, as if it had only waited for him to say something it could parrot.

Gerry wonders if it knows, somehow. If it had been watching, if it knows what he knows, _that _he knows. "You think I'm here because I like monsters."

It follows him slowly - it has to duck its head to enter through the door leading into the next exhibition room, and for a moment, it's all spindly limbs and sharp bones, crude angles- He blinks, and it's gone. (And it looks nothing like him, in a way, but yes, still, the resemblance-)

"Perhaps," it says, sounding almost amused, "I am here because you like monsters."

Gerry cracks a small smile at that; he can't help it. Everything it says sounds so casual, light-hearted, almost, and it's ... well, it's refreshing, in a way. "You could have visited while I was in my hotel room," he answers. "If you don't like art."

"You like art," it shrugs (an odd gesture, coming from it, one shoulder, then the other, mechanical, almost, and Gerry thinks of the prints downstairs, humans, connected to machines, machines turned human or humans turned machine). "You like art of monsters. You should not like to look at monsters. It does not matter, what they once were."

Gerry looks at it, carefully searches its face. If he continues this conversation now, it will end up feeling, to him, like a very different one, and he doesn't want to be the only one leading this second, hidden conversation, or he doesn't want to be uncertain about if he's the only one aware of what kind of conversation it is-

Its face gives nothing away still; it's blank and neutral, and its eyes, he now realizes, are indeed blue, like he'd first thought on the roof of the hotel, blue, like in the photo on the website.

He takes a slow breath. "I think we'll have to agree to disagree here ... Michael."

There's any number of reactions that he would have anticipated. Surprise on its - on Michael's - part, anger, perhaps, or even its disturbing laughter. But it doesn't react to the name at all, and for a moment, Gerry wonders if he was wrong; if he was mistaken, if this right here is just ... something, a manifestation of the Distortion - something, instead of someone. 

He's rather certain though, that he's right; the picture, and the phone call with the secretary seemed to make this so clear- 

Michael(?) slowly turns around and starts strolling across the room, much like any other person would walk through any other room in any other museum. It doesn't stop to look at any of the pieces framed at the walls, but that isn't too surprising, he supposes, since it said it doesn't care about art.

Gerry follows it, and as soon as he does, it slows down, enough for him to look at the prints if he wants. It still doesn't pay any attention to them itself, however, and it doesn't speak, and so Gerry searches for something to say. 

"I think," he says after a few minutes, "that I like stories about monsters because they're safe horror." He glances over to the Spiral creature, who gives no indication that it's listening. Gerry thinks it is, anyway. "Because my life is full of horror stuff anyway, right? And these monsters right here - they're fictional. They can't bother me. They don't actually exist."

The Spiral thing makes a _hmmm _sound and then, finally, looks at him. Once it's done looking at him, it looks at one of the prints instead. "You like the monsters that were human once."

"Not the monsters, necessarily. I do like the stories."

"Of course you do." This sounds dismissive. Condescending almost. "I did not forget about your tattoos. All of you like stories so much." It seems to pause at its own thought for a moment. "Although you do not belong to it."

"... Beholding, you mean? No, I don't."

It simply nods at that, and looks pleased, and doesn't seem to expect any more explanations.

*

Gerry takes a look at the rest of the art pieces in the room, Michael(?) always by his side, and once he's done, he asks, "Do you want to get coffee at the bar downstairs, together?", and he expects it to say no, and it says yes. It seems, once again, pleased when this reaction prompts a surprised and confused look.

Still, Gerry thinks - the company might be nice.

The bar embraces Giger's aesthetic to a degree that delights Gerry - the tables and chairs alike look like they've been worked out of bones and skulls; the separate parts screwed together in unnatural ways to form the correct shapes.

They're not especially comfortable to sit in, but still - he admires the way it leans into the whole thematic. Looking at his Spiral companion is uncomfortable here, because it seems to fit into the chair just a little too well; its back pressed against the backrest so that it's hard to tell where the chair begins and ends, where it begins and ends, and once again Gerry is reminded of the fusions in Giger's works; the perfect synergy between flesh and ... _not_. 

For a while, they just sit there, quietly, and inviting his Spiral acquaintance might have been a mistake, because it's ... a little awkward - it never once touches the coffee Gerry has set down in front of it, and the silence stretches on, and on, and on, and time starts feeling ... weird, and-

"Why are you with her?"

Gerry almost spills his drink; the question comes out of nowhere and interrupts the silence violently. It's ... talking about Gertrude again. Of course. He shrugs a little and, to his own surprise, doesn't have to think about his answer. "She's good at saving the world."

"Oh, that she is. I know that." The answers is completely unemotional, but Gerry wonders, anyway, if he's to take this as a confirmation of-

He tries to shake off the thought, and stares into his cup instead. Perhaps he should just drop it. Take the hint and refuse to bring it up again. But ... no; it won't leave him alone, he has to at least try and get answers - an answer, just this one.

"Was I right?" he asks eventually, after the silence starts stretching on (and on, and on, and-) again; after he's entirely certain that the other doesn't seem to plan to start a conversation again. "You're- You do have a name. It's Michael. Right?"

It looks at him, calmly. "You keep asking question and expecting answers," it says. 

"Just this one right now, really. You ... kinda look like him. I saw a picture, on the website of the Institute. And I ... did some more research; spoke to the receptionist. Someone should teach her she's not allowed to relay sensitive data about current or former employees, actually, but- well, when prompted, she told me about Michael Shelley, and about how he must have quit, because he just ... didn't return."

This gets him a reaction, finally. It narrows its eyes. "I need you to understand, assistant, that I am _not_ Michael. I was never Michael. I am nothing like him."

Gerry frowns at his cup, then lets his eyes wander a bit, frowns at the other's hand, wrapped around its own cup. They look so normal. They don't look as sharp as they apparently are, or can be. "What are you, then?"

"Me?" It sounds surprised, as if that's a question it hadn't anticipated. "I'm _It Is Not What It Is_, assistant. Or - part of it."

Gerry doesn't answer, and when he lifts his head to look at it again, it is looking right back - meets his eyes, firmly, unblinking. 

"If you really are so invested in names, though," it says slowly, "I suppose that ... yes ... Michael is the one you can use for me."

_That doesn't make sense,_ he doesn't say. Because of course it doesn't, and maybe it doesn't have to. Instead he nods. "Thank you," he says, although he's not sure what he's thanking it for, exactly. "... If you want, I think you can call me Gerry."

"Ah," it says. "So we are friends now."

Gerry shrugs and almost says, _Close enough,_ but thinks better of it at the last moment. No matter how nice it is, he needs to keep reminding himself that it is ... well._ A monster; it referred to itself as such._ No need to risk angering it.

"Why are we friends now, assistant?"

Gerry blinks at it. "What?"

"I told you," it says, "I am not Michael."

"I ... got that, yes."

"Then why do you think we are friends now?"

Good question.

"Well. You saved my life. And you ... wanted to warn me. From Gertrude. Because you think she'll ... do the same to me, right? The same thing she did to y- to Michael?"

"She will," it agrees without hesitating. "She does not care about you."

Gerry nods slowly, and then asks, "What happened? What did she do to you?" (A glare.) "Or - to ... Michael?"

Slowly, a grins spreads over its face, and Gerry watches this and thinks, _Liar_. "She saved the world," it answers. "How good for it. And for you. You would not like the way it would look now, had she not."

He decides to ignore that. "... She did that by sacrificing him. Didn't she?"

"Didn't she?" it repeats. 

Gerry suppresses a sigh. "You're still an incredibly frustrating conversation partner."

A smile.

"That wasn't a compliment."

"I am not as fond of questions as you are, assistant. And I especially dislike the ones you already know the answer to. You know. You know, and you will leave this place, and you will keep following her. You are a fool, assistant. There was one, on one of your beloved art pieces."

Gerry doesn't know how to answer that, for a moment. There had been a tarot card, yes - "The Fool", designed to depict someone with a rifle, finger on the trigger, barrel in their own mouth. Well. He takes a sip of his coffee. Michael _still _hasn't touched its own. "It might be foolish to travel with her," he agrees after a few moments. "But I'm not naive enough to trust her."

Michael laughs. The sounds slowly fills the café, winds itself around the room, embraces their table.

"Oh foolish child, then, that you spend your time with somebody you don't trust." The echoing sound of the laughter stops abruptly. "Monsters are monsters, assistant, and it does not matter at all, what they once were."

*

What makes a monster a monster?

What makes the monster, the monster?

Smarter minds than him have written essays about it - clearer minds, at this point, certainly. Half the world's fictional literature poses, in one way or another, this exact question.

There's no answer, he doesn't think. No conclusive one. 

If a monster worries about being exactly that, does that make it any less a monster, any less what it is?

He remembers disagreeing with Michael. Remembers that he'd insisted that it matters, the way the monster came to be, if it's always been a monster, or if it was human once. He's ... not so sure now. 

His name is Gerard. It's still his; he's still Gerry. He's no "it"; he'd object immediately if anyone tried to assign this pronoun to him. Perhaps this makes sense, even - he didn't get sacrificed, he didn't interrupt a world-ending ritual. He was given a choice, and he made a decision. That's the fundamental difference between Michael and him. 

Does this matter at all?

What has changed, then? Something has. Must have. He looks down at his knuckles, and there's fractals, swirling, ever-changing. He can put his hand against a solid wall and pull it away and then open a door. And there's this aching in his chest; distant, vague, like home-sickness, just less so, more so, like a crying child three blocks down, like a newspaper sitting on a front lawn, never taken into the house, like-

He doesn't make sense. His thoughts don't make sense. 

He's not hurting anyone. Has never hurt anyone. Has never dragged anyone over a threshold, never put a door into someone else's living room, or kitchen, or office building. (Michael has attempted to talk about this, he thinks, but-)

Does this matter? Does it change anything? Is this what makes him different from Michael?

He'd complained to it, jokingly - told it that watching isn't what it's supposed to do, had called it a stalker.

He gets it, now. It's so easy; putting a door somewhere, opening it, peering through the crack.

The Archives are old, most of all. The smell of paper and dust hangs heavy in the air, and it's dark, almost - her office is only lit by a small desk lamp; the glow a sickly yellow. Gertrude is recording something - Gerry is hardly listening, but he's sure it must be about the Stranger. He thinks he would have heard, if they had attempted their ritual already. (They would not bring the Distortion through; he's vaguely aware of that - it makes sense, of course, but it's more than logical deduction; firm knowledge coursing through his veins, somehow, and God, he hates that thought.)

He's pretty sure she can't see the door. She's sitting with her back to him, but he thinks she wouldn't notice even if she turned around. He's gotten better at making them exactly what he wants them to be; he can make them in ways that are unobtrusive. And she was never close enough to the Beholding to gain its approval enough for it to simply let her ... Know. 

He's ripped out of his own thoughts when Gertrude puts the statement down and just sits there quietly for a moment. Still turned away from him. Looking at the tape recorder, perhaps. It's still running.

"Well," she says eventually. "Nothing new there - though it is good to know, I suppose, that the Stranger seems to have been more active lately. Their actions are getting almost erratic. I suppose that's what overconfidence is - they must be rather certain that they will succeed this time around. Elias approached me a few days ago and inquired about my plans - I told him that they exist, and that this knowledge should suffice, really. Everything is in order - I talked to Adelard again, and he agrees that what I have prepared should work well enough. What's missing, however, is the person who will go through with it."

A long pause.

And then

"You were always a horrible liar. I suppose you have to appreciate the irony of it."

Gerry stares at her back, grip around the doorhandle tightening. She can't possibly- How did she-

He stays very still and doesn't say anything.

"Perhaps that's why you're no good at hiding, either. Say, how _is _Michael?"

His whole body feels a little numb - a sensation that multiplies violently when a second later, he can feel the Eye's unflinching gaze on him, Watching, Seeing, Seeing, Seeing, Reading Him, and oh, so, so disapproving, and-

(he doesn't belong here)

-he yanks the door back; it falls closed with a loud click-

_(you don't belong here, you're not wanted here)_

-and then it's gone.

Michael is standing behind him. How it found him, Gerry doesn't know; he had thought that he was hidden - he didn't want to be found (or, he had thought he didn't want to be found).

Its hand on his shoulder. He doesn't turn around. It feels ... inhuman. Not right. It feels right; it fits perfectly into this spot on his shoulder; it's as if his shoulder has waited for it.

"You should probably not do that, Gerard," Michael says.

He simply nods, still not turning. He doesn't want to look at it, he thinks, because-

He forgot why, exactly.

"I'm tired, I think," he says. He feels oddly numb, still.

(When _has _he last slept? Has he slept at all, since he became- How long has it been?)

"Yes," Michael says. Its voice is- is soft, almost, and that can't possibly be right. It can't be.

What makes it a monster, then?

Does it matter, if the monster speaks with a voice as soft and dreamy as Michael?

"I don't want to be- this," Gerry blurts out, without thinking. _(you sound tired, so tired, like a swingset after sunset, like a rock covered in snow, so tired)_

"Yes," Michael says again. "That is alright, I believe. Michael never wanted to be Michael. I never wanted to be Michael. It is alright, now."

Gerry shakes his head, but he has no answer to that.

_like a human turned monster turned monster turned monster and perhaps it doesn't matter at all perhaps it's moot and all that's left are monsters monsters monsters lurking and stalking distorted shadows hiding behind doors that aren't doors and that joke doesn't work because a door is always a door and does that mean that a monster is always a monster_

**Author's Note:**

> giger's tarot cards are a++++, and if you ever find yourself in switzerland, please go visit the museum, it's So Good
> 
> (also, i promised the _focus_ on Spiral!gerry, and that did Not work out quite like planned, but,,,,i'll try again next time, dhgakl)
> 
> come find me on [tumblr](https://electricshoop.tumblr.com) and ask me to tell you how Good, Actually our public transport network is (or, if one of the people who are interested in this Niche Concept wants to read something specific, i'm always open to suggestions/ideas/requests!)


End file.
